Hurt
by Dreams-Landing
Summary: What exactly did Watson go through during the three years that Holmes was gone? Did he have help overcoming the events that took place? How difficult was it for him to recover? And exactly how much did those events - HURT?
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes is not mine. At all. _please_ don't sue me.**

**A/N: Okay, so this was inspired by a prompt from the Sherlock Holmes kinkmeme. The prompt was something along the lines of the three years that Holmes was gone how does Watson deal with that and how does he deal with what happened with his wife, something, something, something, with all that happens he breaks down from this. However, Holmes is there in disguise watching how Watson reacts to all of this, and although he want's to help he cannot due to the reason that he is indisposed. Yea.  
**

** Now I haven't read all of the Sherlock Holmes stories but I know that there is some speculation on what exactly happened to Watson's wife. I think some people believe she left him and I think the OP thought that's what happened as well but **_I_** think that she died. Yup. Dead. Now don't get me wrong I like Mary, I just think she died. **

**Oh, and I have no beta, this was just me proof reading as much as I could, so if there are any errors you find please tell me. NOW, ON TO THE STORY!**

SJSJSJSJSJ

Watson can't believe he's gone, really gone, and God, it just hurts so much more than he possibly thought it could. He goes back home, on a train and boat ride that seems infinitely longer than it did coming up; alone - to the only person he has now . . .

Walking up the stairs to his house Watson slows and stares up at the lone lantern that shines over the steps, it's cold yellow light illuminates the steps and everything in a three meter radius, but for some reason it seems to pass right over him. With a deep breath that seems to get caught in his throat , it's closing, he thinks irritated, from the inevitable emotion that's rising in him, taking another deep breath slower this time he walks into his house.

Mary's awake and waiting for him eager for the tail that she knows he has to tell, but her beatific smile immediately wanes and falls at the sight of him. He didn't know what she saw, he thought he had the emotions whirring inside of him wiped away from his face. Although apparently not because as soon as he sits across from her, back straight, hands resting on his knees, and eyes gazing into hers she's there, sitting beside him, arm wrapped around his shoulders the other holding one of his hands firmly. Asking him what happened with a quite worried, concerned voice.

And for a time he sits, staring at the carpet. She waits, knowing that whatever has happened it's what he needs. He doesn't want to talk about it, doesn't want to think about it, he hasn't. not the entire time that he was on the train coming back home, alone. He didn't sleep, he'd known exactly what he would dream about and he's avoided it. And suddenly he realizes exactly _how tired_ he is. . .but. He's stared at everything and nothing and to the best of his abilities kept his mind blank. He can't think about it, has no desire to, he knows if he does that it will all become real. And he won't be able to pretend that something else happened, that everything turned out alright, like it always does. Like in stories, like in his stories. How could something else have possibly happened? How?

But now, it all comes back and it's all coming out. Every detail that he's pushed away and avoided is coming , tumbling, rushing out of his mouth. Everything that happened, everything that he thought had happened, and everything that he realized. And - his voice gives out because _that _memory is playing through his mind. Searing there to the back of his eyelids and now he knows that he will never be able to forget that memory or avoid it.

He folds into Mary and she wraps her arms around him and he cries. There is no sound, just the racks of his shoulders, his slightly increased breathing and the spot on her shoulder that grows increasingly damp.

SHSHSHSH

The funeral isn't a big thing, there are few people, for Holmes didn't know many as anything more than acquaintances. His family is there, Mary's on his right arm and Mrs. Hudson his left, some of Scotland yard come to pay their respects, but other than that - that's it.

The weather annoyingly is actually quite wonderful, and it's so rare that they get day's like this here. Bright, beautiful with cumulus clouds rolling lazily across the sky, the air is crisp and fresh , the sun warm, and it all does nothing but make him feel worse. For all the times that he had huffed or sighed or complained about the dreary weather that London always receives now all he wants is that weather. The rain and fog and pale dead clouds that stretch into forever. There's something he realizes just altogether satisfying about the weather mirroring ones own mood, especially when one feels the way he does.

Slowly those who gathered walk away, move on. One by one. Some time later he looks up to see Holmes' family moving, walking away. They pass him and they talk and then they move on. And he turns back to the headstone. And then with a hug and a few words Mrs. Hudson moves on. Later, Mary tells him that she will be waiting at home for him and she too - moves on.

He stands there and just stares at the stone, ironically it looks to be the same colour as his eyes, or, has he already forgotten what colour his friends eyes were? No. they were always changing with his mood, always changing. But. . .he'd rather not put a name to what colour the stone looks like.

Suddenly the stone in front of him blurs and for a moment he can't understand why, he closes his eyes for a few seconds and tilts his head up. When he opens them he finds that the stone is closer than it was, he looks down and sees that without his knowledge he has fallen to his knees. He ignores this and looks back to the stone, and he sits there thinking, staring at words that slowly fade out of focus again, he puts a hand over his eyes.

"Damn it." the two words are barely a whisper.

He stays there, he doesn't even know how much longer, but when he looks up from the head stone the sun is almost set. Breathing a sigh he begins to stand but brushes his hands over the words on the headstone once more before standing fully. Head down, hands stuffed in his pockets he turns resolutely around and walks away toward the entrance of the cemetery, straining not to turn around once more to look at the head stone. Upon walking out he's startled to see Mary leaning up against the gate obviously waiting patiently for him.

At the sight of Watson she gives him a small smile and he returns it but it doesn't reach his eyes. She takes one of his arms and drapes it over her shoulders and she slides one of hers around his waist and slowly they walk home.

JWJWJWJW

Watson's body gives a great jolt and his eyes snap open, his mouth is stretched wide and a silent scream dies upon his lips. Breath ragged he desperately tries to regulate it and turns slowly to see if he's woken Mary. He hasn't and he takes a breath at that. So many nights he's woken her up, kept her as sleepless almost as much as he. Once his breathing is normal and his heart is calm he gets up. Slowly, slowly he makes his way out of bed. He needs. . .to walk, to drink, anything, just move. He walks into the kitchen and deliberating on drinking at this hour gulps down water. He looks out the window, the first slivers of light are lighting the horizon and he thinks that it's late enough that he can simply stay up.

He notices that he hasn't been getting much sleep lately, and he notices that it's getting worse. But God, those dreams. They slowly and meticulously chip away at him and really if this is the way to avoid those dreams then it isn't that bad. No, it isn't that bad at all. He looks down to the cup in his hand and to the water sloshing and shaking in it where it falls out and splashes onto the floor. He sits the cup down roughly where more water spills onto the counter.

". . . Damn cup." the two words are barely a whisper. And he clenches trembling hands into tight fists.

SJSJSJSJ

He notices that it has gotten much harder to eat lately, and he notices that it is getting worse. Now, by no means is he refusing to eat, he hasn't simply forgotten his hunger, and it hasn't simply vanished. He is hungry, good _Lord_ he is hungry. His stomach growls and aches with his desire for food, to taste and to be full, but at the same time his stomach _churns_ and _turns _at the thought of it.

Sitting at the table with Mary and eating breakfast should, he thinks, be more awkward than it is. See the glances and stares she throws his way, coaxing and urging him to eat? Yes, he see's them too. And . . . God, doesn't this remind him exactly of . . . stop. It isn't awkward though, he looks up just as she looks away, he is trying though. So hard.

He doesn't want to bother her, she has her own problems. It's been month's! what's wrong with him? It didn't take him this long to come back to himself after that bloody war and . . . India. But this . . . He sighs softly and picks up his fork preparing to do battle with those bastards on his plate masquerading themselves as delicious pieces of food.

Damn It All To Hell - he grips his fork stabs it into his eggs and into his bacon and places it into his mouth, he chews and chews and chews . . . and swallows; or attempts to - if it's not one of the hardest things to do! It's as if his body is trying to kill him, trying to; _actually_ trying. His throat is so _tight_, and yes as of late it's always tight but not like this, and it's only like this when he tries to eat. Trying to swallow around the tiniest bit of food hurts, his eyes water, and it feels as if he's going to _choke. _he coughs lightly and lays his fork down.

Sighing softly Mary finishes her plate and gets up to put it away. She comes back and before walking by him leans down gives him a firm but chaste kiss on the lips before smiling and looking him dead in the eyes.

"Eat something for me?" the corner of his lips quirk up and he nods his head. "Promise me." she say quieter and at that a small smile settles over his mouth.

"I promise." smiling lightly she kisses him on the cheek before standing up and leaving.

"Have a good day!" she calls and then there is the click of the door.

He sits there a moment after hearing the door shut and then looks down to his food. Mouth pressing to a thin line he picks up his fork again, he promised. So he must, even if it will all just . . .

A hand lays it's self lightly on his throat as he swallows, swallows and swallows. He forces the rest of his food down, he has eaten. And just as he begins to smile feeling good about himself he can feel it beginning to come back up. He gulps in air and continues to swallow as his hand reaches for his glass of water to help swallow the food back down but as soon as the thought enters his mind he is racing towards the bathroom and his breakfast is coming back up - into the toilet bowl.

Finished, finally after several bouts of dry heaving he leans up against the wall, and the back of his hand wipes across his mouth.

"Maybe I should stick to liquids" he thinks absentmindedly. What? Cider? Apple sauce? _baby food?_ his hand presses to his forehead as he barely whispers.

". . .Damn it."

TBC

Okay. Love It? Hate it? Wish it would spontaneously combust? Click on those three little blue words below and tell me!

IMO, _I_ believe Watson suffered A LOT. I mean his best friend just died, his wife is going to die and I put him through a _bunch_ more, so of course he's going to break down. Now I love Watson, he's my favorite character, but I'm one of those people who love to see their favorite characters suffer, and boy does he suffer in this fic.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Okay. Second chapter, FINALLY. Yea, there is in fact a very GOOD reason on why it took me so long to get this out. Let's see, something inside my computer completely burnt out because my computer over heated. Have to remember to use one of those fan things you put under your computer to keep it cool. AND my computer got a nasty virus. The thing completely trolled me, couldn't get on the internet, couldn't upload any stories - not even from a USB. It was TORTURE not having the internet for so long! But I'm back and so - onto chapter two. **

**Oh, and thing's get NO better for Watson - you'll see what I mean.  
**

God! He was so glad to get out of the house. He'd never realized that he'd have nothing to do with his time if . . .if. He swallows, which hurts, turns his head and raises his hand in the air calling a hansom, and as he climbs into it he looks up to the sky and thinks; is it just me, or are there more blue days?

Upon arrival at Scotland yard he is welcomed with greeting's and smiles but there is sadness and sympathy in each of their eyes, resolutely he ignores their eyes but returns their smiles and greeting's. And then he delves into his work, and he works and works. He does whatever they ask of him; he accompanies them on cases to give aide or examine a body, performs autopsies, though the color of their skin always gets to him on an inexplicably deep level . . . don't worry . . . he knows why.

Everyday they ask him to accompany them to lunch and gradually he's begun to turn them down, he'll eat when he get's home he says.

He fills out paper work and helps anyone who asks it of him, but always too soon, the day is gone and it is time to go home, and perform that song and dance.

-OOoOO-

Time moves on and after that first year he notices that it is getting easier. The tightness in his throat has begun to abate and he's beginning to eat more, the dreams have begun to recede and he's sleeping through the whole night more often. He goes back to his club and he spends time with friends that he hasn't seen in a long while. And - he begins to think about the events that happened, everything that happened between he and Holmes in the past, and he begins to write again.

He walks out of his house and onto the street and stops taking a deep breath of air, it is fresh and crisp. Clouds roll lazily across the sky and the sun is warm and bright. It reminds him of that day, was it really a year ago? His smile wanes a little, it still stings to think about but it's not the encompassing hurt that it was, it's slow going but he is coming back to himself.

He doesn't have work today and for once that's not a bad thing. He didn't think he'd ever get to this point, feeling relatively fine. He's had help from a number of sources, Mary especially, he's so thankful for her, He doesn't know if he would have been able to make it without her.

Taking a deep breath he walks on, intending to enjoy the brilliant day to the fullest.

-OOoOO-

"Mary, how long have you been feeling like this?" Watson asks her while holding her hand tenderly and sitting on the side of her bed.

"About a week." She answers before turning her face and coughing into the bed covers. He - hasn't noticed, at all. He'd come home calling out her name and found her in their bedroom buried in a cocoon of blankets. How has he not noticed? She's pale, a little warm; a low grade fever at the most. He can easily treat this. So why does it feel as if his stomach has just caved in? the irrational fear that he is about to lose her is trying to completely over take him. Nothing is going to happen, she is going to be fine. Watson takes a slow breath and tries to calm his eddied nerves.

He is not going to lose her, everything is going to be fine.

-OOoOO-

Mary's fever breaks just a couple of days after she falls ill and Watson breathes a sigh of relief as she heads out of the house to her job but before the door closes he catches her and gives her a chaste kiss and parting words for a good day. Everything is fine, he thinks as he sits back down at the table and finishes his breakfast. Mary is healthy, everything is coming back into place in his life. All is well, he thinks, or at least it is all becoming well.

That however - was a month ago and Mary is once again sick. Watson sits again on the edge of Mary's bed, holding her hand and brushing hair out of her face. It literally has come out of nowhere, and this time he is paying attention, one day Mary is fine and the next? Ill, bed - ridden, fevered and exhausted. It's astounding how fast it hits her, like a tidal wave.

"Don't worry." Watson whispers to her as she smiles warmly up to him. "I will find a cure,"

"It's going to be okay, John."

Instead of Watson comforting Mary and her being reassured by him it seems as if their roles are reversed and she is comforting him but try as he might he is not reassured. Cannot be, because -

He kisses the back of Mary's hand, her forehead, and her lips and then tells her to get some rest. As he leaves the room he looks back on her once more with concerned eyes and quietly shuts the door.

-OOoOO-

A few weeks later finds Watson going to every doctor he knows, who he's heard of, or who he's referred to, looking for answers, any inkling into what Mary has. He travels far, hours and hours a day looking for doctors and bringing them back to the house. Some days there are over three doctors coming in and out of the house checking Mary over, studying her, looking in their various books, but they all shake their heads, pull Watson into the hall and tell him they have no bloody idea what she has. And that the way things look if she doesn't get better soon she'll - he stops them there. Yes. _He knows._ Thank you. And the only thing they _can_ tell him? Is that whatever she has isn't contagious; because yes, that makes him feel _so much_ better knowing that the thing that is going - _might_ damn it, might take his wife will not even give him the courtesy of taking him as well.

Watson pulls all nighters pouring through his books. Book after book after book. He reads things over for hours, late into the night until he cannot make the words focus on the page, and then he retires into the plush chair by Mary's bed. Sometimes he doesn't even make it there, only makes it as far as the couch on the far wall in his study, other nights he falls asleep on top of a book his head buried in his folded arms.

Once he's exhausted his own collection of medical text he borrows books from the hospital and goes through the same song and dance, but like all the other doctors and in all the other books he finds nothing.

In between looking for doctors and searching for what this could possibly be, Watson takes care of Mary. He makes her food, most of the time her favorites, he brings them to her, and by demand he eats with her as well. They talk for hours and in that time she slowly eats her food, he notices as the weeks go by that the time it takes her to eat is longer, she leaves more and more food on her plate. He coaxes her to eat just as she did with him months earlier and he can barely get over how disconcerting it is to encourage her to eat just like he had to do with Holmes.

Standing up Watson kisses Mary on the forehead before taking both of their plates. His is just about devoid of food and hers? Is laden with a little under half of her meal. "Well, I will be back in a few hours." Mary pulls up her covers and settles into bed.

"Do try not to work yourself _too_ hard, John." His eyes drift to the floor before gazing into her own.

". . .Of course." He says after a hesitant pause. "Get some rest." Watson closes the door quietly and walks down the hall but before he can make it to the stairs his body lists to the side and he stumbles up against the wall. He looks up to the ceiling and closes his eyes trying to stave off the moisture he feels there, after a second he takes a deep breath and moves forward.

In the kitchen Watson reaches over to set the dishes in the sink but his hands have begun to tremble and one slips through seemingly numb fingers shattering on the floor with a resounding crash. The others slip to the counter roughly before he brings his hands to his face covering it as tears slide down his cheeks. Shoulders shaking and breath ragged he slides down to the floor and cries silently.

"_Mary_." The name is barely a whisper.

-OOoOO-

He has failed, wholly, utterly, completely - _failed _her.

By the edge of a hospital bed Watson sits, on the edge of his seat leaning over with arms propped on the linen; in between his hands he holds Mary's, and even though all the muscles in his body are coiled tight he holds her hand gently. She's sleeping, peacefully, one of the few times. Lord, he feels sick, _weak. _His hands tremble around hers and tremors race up and down his body.

He can't believe how out of hand this has gotten. It was - it shouldn't have - he was suppose to have _stopped_ this, cured it, cured her. _Helped_ her. But now . . .

It's been just a few weeks, but in those few weeks Mary has gotten so much worse. Small bouts of pain begin to fill her and when this happens it is beyond him . . . It had probably been beyond him much before that, but he was determined, adamant that he would _save_ her, unlike Holmes . . . and now? Now they're at the hospital, Mary, on the only medication that can help her, and it's only for pain. Watson, sitting beside her filled with desperation, anguish and falling as Mary fades.

The medicine isn't quite strong enough but any more and it will only do more damage, shorten the little time that they have. And every time the pain breaks through the medication and causes Mary's body to tense, her eyes to clench shut, her hand to grip Watson's like a vice a part of him breaks apart and falls away.

He can't believe this - that this is happening - right _now_? Just a few weeks within - within the time that Holmes . . . Died, and Mary will . . . _my_ _God_. . .

Watson leans further forward bringing his and Mary's hand to his forehead. He squeezes his eye shut trying to stave off the _damn _moisture and stinging he feels there. His throat is tighter than it ever has been before, it's so hard to breath, and he can feel those sobs that want so desperately to come out, he breaths deeply, steadily and holds them back. _Damn it._ He can't do this - not right _now_ - just . . .

"Please_ . . . Don't - leave me. Please." _He whispers fiercely, brokenly, as a tear slides down his cheek. And it _hurts_ so much more than losing Holmes because now the two people he cares for most in the world are - are going to - are going to be -. He has two _excruciating_ wounds eating him from the inside out. And. He. Just. _Cannot. . ._

Tears slide down his cheeks and his cries are heavily pronounced in the reticence of the room.

-OOoOO-

"Mary_ please - DON'T." _Her voice is weakening, quieting. Watson can barely hear her even though he's mere inches from her. Tears fall down his cheeks and blur his vision, obscure his last sights of her.

"I love you. . ." Her voice and body tremble with the on set of that _damn_ pain, the on set of shock, the on set of . . . _Death._

"_Mary!" _His hand jerks up though lays gently on her head and smooths down her hair. "Stay with me!" he chokes out as the hand griping his slackens and slowly, he can see, her eyes dim, they seem to stare right through him now. She doesn't see him any more.

"MARY!" And as machines begin to wail and doctors and nurses rush into the room the last thing Watson can read on her lips -

"_I love you. I love you. I love -" _Over and over until her lips don't move any more and he's pushed out of the way. (1)

The world is literally falling away, he can't feel the floor anymore, can't feel his legs, he can't feel . . .anything, but anguish, despair. So severely does it rise up within him that it is literally painful, his heart feels as if it will burst from his chest, he feels - heavy, while his head feels so light. Distantly he notes that he has fallen to the ground and that he is beginning to tremble violently. But he can't care, he can only focus on one thing, between the doctors and nurses bodies, his Mary, her still face.

A dull roar in Watson's ear quickly increased in intensity until he can hear nothing but it and his pounding heart. Distantly he notices that there are hands on him, moving him, trying to help him, but he doesn't care, can't. He only has eyes for Mary as she moves further and further away from him.

Watson want's to shout, scream, say _something, _but again he can't, he can barely breath. It's getting harder to, his breath's are reduced to short, sharp wheezes. The roaring in his ear is so loud that it is a white hot pain, like lightning, shooting through his head. It doesn't feel as if he's having a heart attack, it feels like there is a sharp and jagged rock in his chest where his heart should be quickly increasing in size, trying to stop all function in his chest.

Darkness begins to eat at his vision, and distantly he thinks, _is this death?_

The two most important people in his life - are dead.

Watson willingly falls into the abyss.

TBC . . .

I am a BITCH right? _(Laughs evilly)_ . . . yea. Well, the cliff hanger isn't - that . . . bad, right?

(1) I'll admit it, I was inspired to write that scene from the newest star trek movie where George is telling Winona that he loves her just before his ship explodes. Yup, I cried the first NINE times I saw that scene at the movies. I don't cry anymore - well I get a little stinging in my eyes but that's it.

So, did I get you a few times there? Making you think everything was going to be fine with Watson? Well I TOLD you things get no better. And they don't, they just get worse. Come on, I'm not the only one who likes to see their fave character get whumped. Well - it's more emotionally whumped here, but I thought I'd put some of that out here since there's not that much.

And if there's any errors you all find please tell me, I have no beta, this is just me proof reading. A lot.

Oh! And freaking tell me what you all think man! is my story sad? Did it get to you at all? Or is it just made up of epic FAIL? Push on those three blue words below and TELL ME!


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